


Who Tells Your Story?

by jack_hunter



Series: What Is A Legacy? [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Reunions, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 05:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_hunter/pseuds/jack_hunter
Summary: The path down the stairs and across the landing from the study to the master bedroom was like a trip down memory lane for the man, walls laden with photographs of only his most favourite memories. Friends long gone smiling immortally in their frames which only seemed to get emptier and emptier as the walls grew bearer and bearer.---One man has spent their entire life trying to get people to remember those around him, securing their place in history, forgetting about himself and the legacy he left behind.WARNING: Character Death but it's pretty obvious from the story that someone dies. If I used the archive warning then it would have spoiled the story. Sorry. Not 15x20 compliant, that thing is bull and doesn't exist to me.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: What Is A Legacy? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2212761
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Who Tells Your Story?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SGsVamp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SGsVamp/gifts).



> WARNING: major character death but the guy is like ninety-seven so give him a break. This story deals with the death of many major characters though most are just in passing, but don't worry this story has a happy ending. Please leave a kudos and a comment if you liked it!
> 
> ps. title is inspired from Hamilton, sorry I just couldn't help myself.

The sun had long set over the Kansas farmhouse. On the road into Lebanon, a single mailbox sat below a sign hanging across a driveway, the words “Winchester Honey Farm” written in peeling paint with a smaller, newer sign attached underneath that read “and Repair Shop”. The farmhouse itself seemed no better; once white outer walls more so turning grey, slates missing from the rooftop, the lawn around the gravel road beginning to overgrow. The road broke off in a fork, one way heading towards a bright red and white barn that had begun to overgrow with vines, and the other heading right up to the front porch of the farmhouse. The lights were off, except for one warm orange glow shining dimly from the window in the highest corner. If you had a ladder that reached up to the window, or wings that would let you fly that high, a quick peek inside would show a figure with their back to the glass, head slightly bowed as they looked down at whatever was laid out on the desk. Every now and again the page would be turned, or the pen that sat nearby would be picked up and used to scrawl a couple of words. The rest of the room was unimportant compared to the figure at the desk. Not once did the figure turn around. Not until the door slowly creaked open. 

“Dad?” came a voice. A head peeked around the doorframe; dark brown hair pulled back in a very simple braid, bright eyes blinking the sleep away as a soft frown fell over the middle-aged lady’s lips, “you were meant to be asleep hours ago, what are you still doing up?”

The figure at the desk turned his head, stark-white hair shining in the light of the desk lamp. Different yet eerily similar eyes glanced over at the pyjama-clad woman by the door. Wrinkly cheeks creased more as the man smiled. “I still have work to do, honey.”

“All you do is work, Dad,” the woman argued. 

“Grace-”

“You’ve been working every day since Pops died,” the woman, Grace, stated as she entered the room properly, stopping by her father’s side with a hand on the man’s shoulder. He reached a shaking palm up to rest atop it, squeezing as tightly as he could with what little strength he had left.

“I just need to write something down,” he insisted. Grace rolled her eyes. 

“Why do you always write like you’re running out of time?” she asked, a little exasperated. It wasn’t the first time she had asked that same question, and a part of her felt like it wouldn’t be the last either, “please go back to bed, Jack will smite me if he thinks I’m not taking care of you properly.”

“I’ll be done soon,” the man assured, earning yet another eye roll, “I promise, darling, just this last page.” 

Grace sighed, shoulders slumping and her free hand heading straight into the pocket of her pyjama bottoms. “One day, Pops and uncle Sammy will run out of journals for you to read through.” She leant down just enough to press a kiss to her father’s cheek, “I’m going back to sleep. I better not find you up here come breakfast." Grace made a move to leave, heading back to the door of the little study room, but as her hand went trailing from her father's shoulder, it was suddenly caught in a tight grip. 

"Gracie-" the man began, words catching just long enough for the woman to turn back around. The man smiled, one of those genuine ones where you can't hold back how much pride and joy gets trapped behind your eyes. "I love you."

"I love you more," Grace replied, her own smile just as genuine and bright despite the sleepiness. 

"Never possible," the man remarked, almost instinctively. Grace left the room, their hands slipping apart. 

True to his word, he finished the page he was working on and slipped the piece of paper into the back of the journal, rising from his chair with creaks and cracks that didn't seem possible in a body that had survived so much trauma. Still shaking hands reached for the wooden walking stick that rested against the edge of the desk, gripping tightly as slipper-clad feet took small and slow steps away from his work. The desk lamp stayed on, as it always did no matter the time of day, and kept the room illuminated through the window as the door closed behind him. 

The path down the stairs and across the landing from the study to the master bedroom was like a trip down memory lane for the man, walls laden with photographs of only his most favourite memories. Friends long gone smiling immortally in their frames which only seemed to get emptier and emptier as the walls grew bearer and bearer. Different faces looked his way; a pair of ladies in different police uniforms, a girl with blonde hair and a punk rock look about her, two redheads - one wearing a shimmering evening gown and the other wearing a flannel not hiding Princess Leia's face on a t-shirt, an older and a younger blonde who always seemed to be in a bar, an older man in a ball cap who could be seen in a wheelchair in older photographs, a young man with bright eyes and the most innocent smile, and a young lady with dark hair, bright blue eyes and an attitude bigger than the heels on her combat boots. Names could be supplied to each face, his memory still perfect despite the time passed. Jody. Donna. Claire. Rowena. Charlie. Ellen and Jo. Bobby. Jack. Grace. Later came little children, and the occasional friendly face appeared in the corner of a Christmas photo now and again - sometimes cuddling a dog - but within all these people, three faces were recurring. 

A tall man with long hair who always somehow had a bitchface plastered on his mug even when smiling, a shorter man with eyes so green they seemed like they belonged in fiction, and a man clad in a long trench coat with messy hair and a smile that reached all the way to his glowing blue eyes. These three faces were everywhere, until they weren't. Until they began to fade from the photographs just as much as the others did. Green eyes went first, a hole seeming to appear where he used to appear in the pictures just like the hole that appeared in everyone's life when he passed. Long hair went next, a good twenty years after the first man but no easier than before. It left blue eyes all alone. Alone in a farmhouse that felt too big for one person after his husband passed and his children fled the coop. 

Faces disappeared just as the photographs did the closer the old man got to his bedroom door. The inside of the room was bare too, the entire left side untouched and even dust-laden but it didn't seem to bother the man as he pulled back the covers and gingerly eased himself down onto the bed, walking stick being placed within easy reach. Hands came together in his lap, head bowed. 

"Hi Jack," the man said aloud, words hushed so late at night yet the prayer seemed to echo throughout the room, "I hope everything is going alright in Heaven. I hope you're doing well too… I miss you dearly, I…" words faltered. The man took a deep breath, "ever since Dean died I've done all I could to keep his story going. He was so insistent about writing it himself after Chuck was defeated that it feels… wrong to let it end so soon. I know there was so much more he wanted to do - wanted to teach, especially to you and Gracie - he had a story he wanted to tell and I wanted to make sure he got to tell it.” 

The corner of his mouth crept up as he remembered the different travels he had gone on in a hope of securing a spot in history for his husband and brother-in-law, the different tales of hunts recounted to him by hunters whose names were forever ingrained in his heart. The stacks of hand-written books that lined his study were countless, yet grew rarer and rarer as the decades passed. Notes and studies about hunting, from the basic rules to knife throwing techniques and a confusing page titled “How To Pun Like A Real Slayer”. Everything read through with a critical eye but a loving mind as a red pen corrected the grammar of a high school drop out. Who knew his husband could spell “inconsequential” but not “definitely”, he always thought to himself as he crossed off “defiantly” yet again. The years he and Sam had spent combing through every item Dean had collected, finding out the story behind it and writing it down to go with the rest of the pages. 

“Sam, well, Sam was such a great help. He wanted to keep Dean’s memory alive as much as I did; helped as best he could before he passed on too.” Sam’s funeral had been no easier than Dean’s, ashes scattered across the honey farm to rest alongside his brother. Sam had a good life. He and Eileen had raised their little girl right, Maura eventually having children of her own like Grace did. The only difference being that Sam got to see his grandchildren grow up. There was only twenty years between each brother’s death, in so long so much could change. 

“I’ve been doing this for fifty years, fifty years longer than I thought I'd ever get,” the man chuckled, still convinced Jack had something to do with bringing him out of the Empty half a century earlier, “it just doesn't feel like I've done enough. I keep asking myself, what would Dean have done if he'd had all this time? I've done everything I could, I trained young hunters, I took up researching again, and I even kept the Impala in perfect condition until my hands started to shake too much.” Baby was safely tucked away in the barn, the one with the overgrown vines up the side. Despite being over a hundred years old, she still ran like she rolled off the production line that very morning. 

“Oh, can I tell you what I’m proudest of?” The man asked the air around him, fingers unlacing just long enough to wipe a stray tear away, “The Bunker. Sam and Eileen, their network kicked off and now the Bunker is a hub for hunters to turn to when they need somewhere safe. Kevin was put in charge when they retired. We even reclaimed the name; it’s “the Society of Letters” now. Charlie felt it was more inclusive and I couldn’t agree more. It also helps to distance ourselves from some more… unfavourable associations.”

He huffed, hands falling into his lap. “Why am I even telling you all this? It's not like you don't already know, you are God after all,” He grimaced, biting his lip before reclasping his hands. God may be his son, but it still felt blasphemous to speak out. “I guess… I guess I just need to know if it's enough,” he sighed, “have I done enough? Will they remember Dean and Sam for who they were, for all the good they did?” He sniffed, rubbing roughly at his eyes, “I know my time is nearly up, a-and a part of me fears I-I will still be headed for the Empty despite b-being entirely human once again. I-I-I know you would never leave me there, but even as God there is only so much I will ever ask of you.”

The silence was enough of an answer for the man. With a sigh, he spun himself in his spot and tucked his feet under the covers. A hand went under the pillow where it pulled out a red checkered flannel, bringing it close to his face. It was still soft, still smelt… smelt like sunshine. And gunpowder. With a smile - well, more of a grimace - Castiel laid his head down. 

“I can't wait to see you again,” he whispered, “I know it's only a matter of time. Goodnight, Jack.” Reaching out he switched off the lamp and closed his eyes. 

  
  


Blue eyes opened. There was no bed, no walls, no notions of a home. Instead, a field in the middle of a forest. Unexpected, and unusual. It wasn’t a place Castiel could remember; he wasn’t sure he had ever stood in a near-perfectly round clearing surrounded by bur oak trees. He looked around, and then down. His favourite blue tie was twisted around in that odd way Dean always liked. Same suit, same shoes, same mismatched set of socks since Grace had claimed they were bad luck on her third birthday and practically forced Castiel to never wear a matching pair. The ensemble would have been complete if he had been wearing his trench coat, but he had gifted that to Jack on his son’s twenty-first birthday. His hands were not shaking. He ran one through his hair and when he looked again, a few loose black hairs had caught on his fingernails. His hand went to his cheeks. Stubble. His shoulders and back no longer hurt, knees were no longer wobbly. 

He was dead. His time had come and gone. But where was he?

Glancing around again, Castiel felt something come back to him. Something… familiar. Like something in the back of his mind knew exactly where he was but it certainly wasn’t on earth. It didn’t look or feel like the Empty. Was he asleep? No, the Empty promised him eternal torment, not nature sounds in the middle of a deciduous forest. Heaven then. Yes. Heaven. But it wasn’t Heaven. Not the Heaven Castiel remembered. The Heaven Castiel remembered had been torn apart, left to ruins as a result of his idiocy. No, this Heaven felt… free. There was no dreadful weight on his shoulders from the guilt of his actions. No white corridors and no walls. Everything felt… open. Jack really had changed it all around. 

Footsteps crunched on the crisp morning grass. He didn’t even need to turn his head to know exactly who it was. He knew that soul; he had raised it from Hell himself. Castiel looked to his left. 

Dean looked as if he hadn’t aged a day since Castiel had knocked on the Bunker’s door fresh out of the Empty. He had his hands in the pockets of a dark green army jacket, boot kicking up the dirt below his feet as he scuffed it with his heel. Light hair, impossible green eyes, every bit the man Castiel had fallen in love with over six decades ago. Dean smiled, the word “hey” falling from his lips but with no sound. Not the slightest. In union, they approached one another, stopping with just an arm’s reach. Dean held out a hand, but Castiel’s face fell as he kept his own back, wanting nothing more than to take that hand and pull his love in tight but he froze. For a second. Hesitantly, Castiel slipped his hand into Dean’s, not expecting it to be suddenly grasped tightly and pulled up to have a kiss pressed to the knuckles. 

Dean nodded his head to the side, gaze not breaking from Castiel even after he gently tugged his hand and began to lead the recently deceased towards the line of trees. Their hands still clasped together, Castiel led his love guide him, but they had barely taken three steps before they were stopping again. His brow furrowed. Dean was still smiling. Castiel looked to his right. A shuddering gasp left his lips, hands wrenched back to cover his mouth like it would help trap his shock. 

They were no longer in that clearing. Instead, Castiel found himself looking upon crowds and crowds of thousands dressed in black, all congregating in front of the farmhouse he had just fallen asleep in. Every face, Castiel could put a name to. He had spent his years either training those people or learning from them, writing their stories. The further back Castiel looked, the more and more people he realised he knew. Next to him, entirely unaware of his presence, Grace knelt down before a stone cross embedded in the ground where she placed a single rose. Her eyes were red and puffy, tears still falling freely as she lent on her husband’s shoulder for support. A quick glance as the cross confirmed Castiel exactly what he already knew, yet still surprised him all the same. 

“Castiel Winchester

xxxx-2070

An Angel So Focused 

On The Story Of Others 

That He Never Told His Own”

One by one, mourners placed flowers atop what they all knew was an empty grave, the remnants of a pyre dying out behind them all. It seemed infinite, those lined up waiting for their own turn to pay respects to a man most only spoke with the once. Yet, in that setting sunlight, it seemed irrelevant how long you knew the man. 

It was only Dean slipping his hand back into Castiel’s that broke the angel’s stares, but as awe founded as he was, he still looked to the hunter for an explanation, a reason for the service. 

“You did enough.” Dean said, before he gently wrapped his angel up in his arms and let the man relax into his shoulder. Castiel gripped a hold of Dean tightly, face burying in the crook of his neck as he finally, finally, let himself cry, knowing at last his years of work hadn’t been all for nought.

When Castiel eventually looked up, still clinging to the love of his life like they would be separated once again, a lone figure stood a little way away, far from the funeral procession and seemingly not on their plane. A figure who, like Dean and himself, seemed to have not aged a day since they defeated Chuck. A boy - no a man - clad in his father’s trench coat, as he had been every day since his twenty-first birthday. Jack grinned brightly, then reached a hand into his pocket to pull… something out. A little fussing about and suddenly, he was holding up a large piece of paper. “ _ See you at home! _ ” it read in blocky and backwards letters. Just as Castiel felt the laughter bubbling in his chest, Jack disappeared with the blink of an eye and an audible  _ whoosh _ . 

Home it was. 


End file.
